


Alone In Consciousness

by PhoenixandMuser



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:03:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixandMuser/pseuds/PhoenixandMuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John never could get over seeing Sherlock falling from St. Bart's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was late in a cold night that I woke up suddenly. There was no apparent reason for me to be startled, nothing different about the room. I was still alone. Sleeping was the only time I wasn't. Restless now, I got out of bed, taking the soft navy dressing gown from it's hook and pulling it on. About to open my bedroom door, I was stopped in my tracks by an unmistakeable sound. One I hadn't heard in too long. A sweetly melancholy tune played on his violin, it could only be him. 

He was there, in his armchair, the instument that had remained untouched poised on his shoulder. I never moved it from it's place, and I didn't like people touching it. Only Mrs Hudson would disturb it, whilst I was out, to clean the fine layer of dust on it's polished surface.

But now he held it, looking over at me. Waiting for me to say something. 

I couldn't. They'd told me over and over, he was gone, since the moment he hit the ground from St Barts, he was gone and never coming back. But now he sat before me without a scratch. After a while of silence, he sighed, rising from his seat and walking to the window.

"Look at it. So tedious, just like I never left, ongoing, constantly boring." he scowled at the sleepy road of Baker Street.

"It's 2 in the morning, there's hardly going to be a parade."

"Parades are tedious too, surely there's a murder to be solved?" He turned to face me, raising his eyebrows like I would produce a case for him.

Everything was just about caught up with the impossible sight I took in "Sherlock!" I ran to him, and although he seemed surprised, he put his arms around me as I held him tightly "Don't you ever pull something like that ever again, do you hear me? I thought you were dead, but I couldn't believe it, you're too clever to be dead."

"Oh, we're doing this, are we? I suppose it's to be expected." 

"What?" I looked up at him.

"This. This flood of emotions put poorly into words. Yes, I'm here, no need to say it over and over, else I'll leave again out of boredom." he rolled his eyes.

I laughed, but didn't let go, blinking back tears I never let anyone see. It was definitely him. "You are not leaving again, don't even think about it. Be as cocky and clever as you like, so long as you're here."

Now he laughed, taking his arms away "Oh, you certainly have missed me. No wonder, you all lead such dull straightforward lives... But you've missed me more than anyone, an excessive amount... That's mine." he tapped the fabric on my shoulder.

Slowly, I released him. I had so many questions, my average mind could never pick the right one to start with. If had been the other way around, Sherlock would always say the right thing, but he'd no doubt have figured everything out before. 

I started with the simple ones first "You ok?"

He smiled and nodded, smoothing his purple shirt down.

"Tea?"

He shook his head, so I went to the kitchen to make one for myself. When I returned, he was sitting down again.

I settled into the other chair, and he studied me a moment.

"Go ahead." I muttered.

"Almost everything is exactly how I left it, you haven't changed a thing. Even some of my experiments are still in the fridge-"

"Mrs Hudson was set on getting rid of the thumbs, sorry."

He continued as if I hadn't interupted "You haven't updated your blog, you've rarely left the house. You haven't been sleeping very well, you had a nightmare earlier tonight. You have some rather senseless attachments to inanimate objects, more specifically things of my possession, my bed was made when I left, but has clearly been slept in several times since, although the sheets haven't changed. It's been almost a year, John, why would you still be upset?"

I looked at him, displeasure clear on my face.

"What?" he sighed.

"Where have you been, Sherlock? We thought you died, yet here you are, back and it seems like nothing ever happened. I saw you jump! How did you do it?"

His eyes filled with sadness, which I was not used to seeing in him. Getting to his feet, he stood before me "I think you should go to bed now."

Strange, he led me to his bedroom, taking the dressing gown from me and hanging it up. he moved about the room, drawing the curtains, and gesturing for me to get into his bed. Unsure of what he was thinking, I obeyed, and he pulled the covers snug around me.

"We're talking about this in the morning, Sherlock, you have to tell me _something_."

He nodded and left the room. The door clicked shut behind him.

In the morning, I got out of bed, straight into the living room, to find he wasn't there. I assumed he was sleeping, as there was no answer when I called him. Why he'd taken my bed while I took his, I had no idea. I made our breakfast, calling Mrs Hudson as I heard her come in.

"Hello dear, how are you?" she came with her cautious tone, worried about how I dealt with everything. None of it mattered though, as she too would meet him once again, as soon as he woke.

"Good, thanks, how are you."

She stared at me, confusion "You seem suddenly cheerful today."

I shook my head "Are you joining us for breakfast?"

"Who? Do you have a lady friend sleeping over?" she was almost incredulous.

"No, Sherlock and me."

Now she shot me the same saddened look as he did when he sent me to bed last night.

I walked around her and to me bedroom door. "Sherlock?" I knocked gently. There was silence, and I pushed the door open to an empty room. 

She watched as I ran about, looking for him "Don't give me that look, he was here, just last night, _he was here_ , playing violin and we were talking. He came back, I don't know where he's gone, he made all his observations and said we'd talk in the morning, this sounds insane, but he was. He was right here." I sank into the seat he had taken before. "He was here."

"I'm sorry, John. But he really is gone now. There's some things even a clever man like him can't get around."

I hid my face in my hands, tears welling up again as I tried to cling to the vivid moments of a rapidly fading dream.


	2. Chapter 2

The violin sat by the window, where it'd had always been. It had been so long since I heard it, in a dream or otherwise. Half of me felt guilty for even contemplating, but the rest was so desperate. 

I picked it up, with as much care as I could, as if I was terrified to shake some small part of his spirit out of it. I held the bow in my other hand, shaking a bit. I thought back to how he had done it, thn lifted the bow to draw across a string. I cringed at the horrible screeching noise, and returned it to its spot in a hurry. The music was best left to him. It seemed a shame leaving the instrument unplayed for so long, but I can only bare to see it in his hands. My failed attempt left a chord of discomfort resonating in me. I used to be annoyed to hear him up playing at ridiculous times in the morning. I never thought I'd miss it.

I looked back at the room. A few things are missing now. His skull 'friend', his cushion, all the science equipment. It's in storage. Mrs Hudson thought it would help, make things easier. There were some things I just couldn't let her take. The cluedo board is still hidden away, although she insisted I took it from it's place stabbed above the fireplace. I refused to repaper the wall with his smile face target and bullet holes, despite her threats to put it on the rent. She tried hardest to take the dressing gown. His favourite blue one. Needless to say, she lost that battle, and it remains in it's rightful place in his bedroom.

The place still feels empty, to anyone else, it would seem that very little has changed. They're wrong. They'd believe everything in the papers too, but they didn't know him like I did. They never understood him, I never understood either, but I tried to. They never thought that there was something he hid from them, they never considered how human he could really be. I can't stand hearing them mention him. Donovan and Anderson, both are repulsive to me, easily forgetting all the things they said to him when they went to his funeral, just to save face.

I'm getting all worked up now, just because of that violin. 

He never got the idea of caring. Well, he never showed it, if he did. Caring won't bring someone back, but loving them makes you care anyway.

"Maybe you should try getting out of the house dear." Mrs Hudson said, coming up the stairs. 

"I get out of the house sometimes."

"Other than the grocery shopping, you're always cooped up in here." she peered into the frdge "And you don't do the shopping regularly either. You've run out of milk."

"He was meant to get the milk." I muttered, mostly to myself.

Her visits always involve me trying to have patience while she fusses over me; how I need to tidy some of his things away, how I should get out more, I'm looking a little peaky, maybe I should talk to my phsychiatrist again. It does no good for me, but I let her, if it eases her worry. Then she said something I hadn't expected.

"Maybe you should go and visit him. You haven't been in a while, it could help you to stop missing him so much."

At the time, I disregarded the suggestion. Later in the evening, I went alone to his grave, sitting in front of it, the golden letters of his name shining in the setting sunlight. I talked to him for a while. It might of made me feel better, although I didn't believe he was there. It couldn't be him buried beneath. I knew it wasn't, he was too clever. I know him, he would have found some smart arse way out. One day I'll come here again, and he'll be there, waiting to tell me of his massive intelect, to tell me in what brilliant way he achieved it.

I moved to kneel close to the marble slab, placing a hand on the cold stone "Stop it, Sherlock. Stop this and come back. You can play violin as early as you like, I'll tell you where I hid your emergency cigarettes, I'll buy you your own fridge for all your experiments. This has gone on long enough, stop now."

I could beg all night, but know that he couldn't hear me. He wasn't there. He was off, crimesolving under a different name, although he'd still be insulting, belittling and showing up the people lucky enough to work with him. The thought made me smile, which felt strange. In the back of a cab, I passed Scotland Yard. Donovan and Anderson were just walking out, and in the back of my mind, I heard him in his disapproving tone: Idiots.

When I got back to the flat, it felt even more empty than before. I stayed up as long as I could, but eventually, I allowed myself to go to bed. Not my bed. On my way to his bed, I let my fingers brush against the navy silk dressing gown. I didn't sleep here often, and it hurt to change the sheets, the light trace of his aftershave now gone.

Hours through the night, once again in the earliest point of the morning, I heard it again. Smiling, I didn't get up immediately, for fear of jolting out of a dream. This wasn't a dream, I hoped.

When the tune changed to an unfamiliar one, I walked to find him as quietly as I could. When he saw me he stopped playing. 

"No, no, carry on." I sat down in the armchair opposite his.

He smiled and resmed playing "You did say I could play as early as I liked."

"Wh- have you been-"

"You also owe me a fridge, an interesting promise to make while visiting someone's grave."

"Sherlock?"

"Where are the cigarettes?"

"Sherlock!" how had he heard all of that? I was sure I was alone.

He watched me, waiting. The slowly smouldering fire cast shadows under his cheekbones, and he hadn't taken his coat off, the collar turned up as I always remembered. I smiled at his petulant expression, making him roll his eyes and get to his feet. He held his arms out, and for one second, I got a horrible flashback.

The way he stretched out his arms, just before plummeting from the roof... he reached a hand out, and I so badly wanted to take hold of it, he must have been scared. And the tears I herd in his voice...

I ran to him now, scared to see him fall again, slamming into him, and holding tight.

"This again..."

"Shut up."

I listened to his laugh, deep in his chest. "Where have you been? Why did you leave? I almost thought it was another dream."

"Mrs Hudson checks on you regularly, I'm meant to be dead, and the dead don't come back to visit their friends. Mycroft won't like this at all."

"Mycroft knows? He gets to know you're aive, but I don't?" I pulled away.

"It would be impracticle to try and hide from him, and he was quite helpful actually." he shrugged.

"He better be, after selling you out like that."

"And you know I'm here now, so what's the problem?"

We took our seats again, and the stream of questions built up again.

"Is there any point in asking what happened?" I sighed.

"Moriarty."

"...Right. Um, how are you still here? I saw you jump. You jumped."

"Mm, perhaps." he must know how his short unexplanitory answers wound me up. 

"You jumped, you hit the pavement and you died. I felt your pulse, I felt how cold you were, I saw all that blood, you told me your suicide note."

"For someone so resistant to believing I'm dead, you just seem to be convincing yourself that I am in fact gone."

"Fine, don't tell me anything. I shouldn't be surprised, you keeping your clever little plans from me, although something like this, I would have thought you'd tell me at least."

He was quiet for a while, unlike him not to have some line to comeback with. "You seem very agitated, it was a mistake to come back. I'm... sorry."

"It wasn't a mistake. I've missed you. But that apology looked like it hurt." I smiled at him, hoping to see him do so in return. He didn't.

"It does seem you've not missed me as much as when I first came here." his eyes swept over the room. 

"I think for the first time, I can disprove your deductions."

He laughed, sitting back, waiting for me to  continue.

"You've noticed a few things missing. Mrs Hudson took them, and we argued a lot over it. The things that aren't here are in storage, because neither of us could bring ourselves to lose them permanently. Next clue?"

"You've finally taken off my dressing gown."

I shook my head "Nope. Again, Mrs Hudson. She took your red one, sorry. And she got me a new one of my own, two actually. But... I still borrow your's." 

"You stopped going to your physchiatrist."

"What help could she be? She never understood." I muttered.

He pursed his lips. Even though it meant I still missed him, he didn't like to be wrong.

"Would it make you feel better, if you thought I was getting over this?"

"You haven't updated your blog for two years."

"Sherlock."

He ignored me "I thought people liked reading your blog. Why haven't you updated it?"

"What would I possibly have to say now?"

"I don't know, what did you write about before?" he frowned.

Him. "Just life, all the cases that you solved, whatever happened."

"Write about things that heppen then. It'd make it so much easier to keep an eye on you."

"You've been spying on me?"

"Hmm. Observing you."

I folded my arms and glared at him "Sherlock... Stop pretending to be dead and come back."

He huffed and stood up, returning his violin to the window. "I think you should go to bed now."

"No, we'll stop talking about it, just don't go yet."

He looked at me, studying me for a while. "You're no good to yourself like this, John. You really should get over it all. Why should you care anymore?"

Not this time. He wouldn't trick me into thinking that way again "You. I know you have a human side to you. Don't act like you have no concept of how people feel about things. If you were so clever, you'd know- Just... don't go there."

"No, tell me. What the 'human' veiwpoint on this?"

His icy grey eyes were fixed on me. He probably just wanted to hear me say something nice about him. I suppose I hoped that telling him would make him stay. "If you care about someone, if you really cared about them, you'd miss them past the point of reason, you'd remember them, you wouldn't want to let it go."

"Why would you care about me? You always made it clear I was a pain in the neck. Why would you miss that?" he pressed the tips of his fingers together, resting his chin on them.

"Because, Sherlock, I consider you my best friend, and seeing you kill yourself was the most traumatic thing I have ever seen. Ever. And I was in the army."

He raised his eyebrows, not fully satisfied.

"You're so egotisticle... When I met your brother, he did this analysing thing on me too. It must run in the family." I smirked as he wrinkled his nose at the comment "Anyway, he said that my hands shook because I was tense, waiting for something to happen, needing to feel a rush. And when I was with you it was like running on the battlefield again. I miss it. I miss you."

"I forgot the milk." he got to his feet.

"Don't leave like that." I stood too.

"Are you going to be a brave boy and sleep in your bed tonight?" he grinned.

"Dead or alive, you're an annoying dick." I pushed past him walking to the door of my bedroom. "You'll come back soon? Why don't you stay?"

"One day, John." He turned his collar up, striding out and closing the door quietly behind him.

I tried to sleep, but found I couldn't. This was real, for certain. In the morning, I would let no shadow of doubt tell me otherwise. Just like I never let anyone tell me that everything Sherlock had said was a lie. 

In the morning, I got up quicker than usual. The first thing I did was look for the box Mrs Hudson had taken a few months ago. It was stowed away in the cupboard. For now, I only took the cushion and the skull. I was smuggling a skull back into the living room. I'd never do that without living with Sherlock. 

I knew what I was going to do next, after making a cup of tea. When I opened the fridge, I saw a full carton beside the almost-empty one. He remembered the milk...

The living room seemed messier than when I went to bed and I wondered what he'd been doing when he returned that night. I looked around, trying to notice everyting that had been altered, soon realising that he'd found his cigarettes, hidden behind a few books on the bookshelf. Laughing, I wondered if he'd done anything else. I would wait until later to find out, this more pressing task taking my attention. I sat before my laptop, turning it on, and, for the first time since his fall, I loaded my blog. The hit counter was still broken, although I assume the hit have dropped to nothing, as expected, but it didn't matter. I'd prefer a limited audience for this.

The last post... 16th of June. 'He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him,'

Was? He  _is_  my best friend. I don't care where he goes, what he does, genuine or fraud, he is my best friend.

_The blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

_It's been a long time since I've been on here, and I assume that there will be no one here to read it. It doesn't matter though. A friend requested I update, so one last post from me will be all._

_It's been almost 3 years since I lost my best friend, Sherlock Holmes. I still miss him as much as I did back then._

_People weren't always very nice to him, and I regret to say that sometimes I wasn't either. But that never stopped him being brilliant. And while everyone else has stopped believing in him, preferring to listen to the newspapers, I haven't._

_I was alone before I met him, and I had nothing to do with my life after returning from Afganistan. But every day was like an adventure, even when he was being a pain._

_He is rude, arrogant, inconsiderate, insensitive, he always complains and he keeps his 'science experiments' in the microwave. I owe him a fridge especially for his specimens, because even when he was being all that (which was often!) he's brilliant._

_I was warned about him, I was told to stay away from him, he's a physcopath! He's not. Thse people just never understood him. I wish I understood him, but I don't need to. I already know he's an amazing man, just different to what he'd call an 'average mind.' After a while of running around with him, I liked having an average mind, so I could appreciate his intelligence._

_I don't care anymore, whether the Earth moves around the sun or not. He's right, there are more important things._

_Meeting him, you might have thought he was a cold, unfeeling person. Many people did. It's hard to miss his eccentricities. I punched the Superintendent of Scotland Yard for calling him names because of them! Of course I got arrested for that, but Sherlock being Sherlock got us out of that by a flash of brilliance._

_If he was really everything people said he was, he'd have used his genius for the wrong things. If he was really what they said he was, he'd be Moriarty. I've never met anyone further from that._

_Deep down, very deep down, there's an emotional part of him. Sometimes, I thought I could see hints of it. I know, on a side he never shows anyone, there's a completely caring, humane trait, making him a thousand times the man I could ever hope to be._

_I'd give anything to have him shouting at the T.V, or playing violin at 1am. I'd be happy to find a head in the fridge again, or to listen to him shoot the wall out of boredom. I wish I'd never let him get bored, a mind like his never deserved to be left dormant. I wish I'd had more patience when he was being difficult. I miss him._

_I believe in Sherlock Holmes, my best friend and the greatest man I've ever known._

Happy with what I put, I posted it. I hadn't said everything, but he already knew.

After a few minutes, I got a comment on it. I knew it could only be from him.

_Anonymous: how touching, appropriate that a eulogy is your last post_

Apparently someone's emotionaly side is being kept well away today.

_John Watson: Normal people would at least say thank you! And it wasn't a eulogy!_

His first comment disappeared, replaced with a new one.

_Anonymous: Thank you, John. That was a very kind thing to write. You're a good friend._

Then another took it's place

_Anonymous: If anyone ever came close to understanding, it would be you_

All his comments disappeared so quickly, but the last one said the most.

_Anonymous: I miss you._

I knew how hard it would have been for him to say any of that, and any evidence was gone now. But he'd read it. So now I went about closing the site. It only ever reminded me of adventures I'd never forget.

 


	3. Chapter 3

It was no longer with a heavy heart that I lived my day-to-day life. I wasn't entirely happy, and I was still lonely. But in a few of those quiet moments, I'd remember that eventually, he'd come back. Eventually I'd wake to find him swanning about the flat in his normal, irritating way.  

  
I looked forward to the chases, the mysteries, and the danger. I wanted more to hear Sherlock do what he did best, pull clues from what seemed like nothing, fit everything together to form a clear picture and solve everything in one breath. It never stopped being amazing to me, and I never stopped telling him. I never will, because even though he knew he was brilliant, and never doubted it, I know that someone else telling him, while others were resentful, would make him just that little bit more confident. Just that tiny bit happier.

I sat in front of my laptop, which displayed a screensaver. Normally, when I pressed a button or tapped the touchpad, it would wake up. The coloured display cleared, now showing just a black screen. I could have worried, but I didn't have much use for the thing anymore. I had very few emails to send, no cases for Sherlock to solve via Skype, and no blog to update. It was, at most, an annoyance. But before I could try anything to fix it, white, pixelated characters flickered across the screen. The shapes formed letters, and the annoyance of a broken laptop changed to something more of a mixture. Fear. Hope. Amusement. Nervousness.

  
And still annoyance.

  
_Hello, John._   


_The car is waiting outside._

  
He had my phone number. A quick call, or a brief text would have been enough to get my attention. The doorbell worked too. But no, Mycroft Holmes just had to hack into my laptop

 

I took my time, although I couldn't do much to stall, as I walked down the stairs and out onto the street. Sure enough, the sleek car with blacked out windows was parked in front of me, with Anthea stood by it. She paid me no attention, phone clutched in her hands. I said hello anyway, and got into the back seat. She slid in beside me, but offered no explanation

 

It was a worry.  The last time he'd brought me to see him... well, it was a long time ago. Years. Why would he want to see me now? I was no Holmes, but from what I knew of the situation, it looked bad. The last time I met him, it was about how he sold his brother out to Moriarty.  The last time I met him, I found out that he had, in effect, killed his brother, my best friend. I knew that he was aware that Sherlock was alive. I knew that he only wanted to see me when there was something wrong, regarding Sherlock. Put those things together, and it didn't look good. 

 

 

 

The journey seems long, with the other passenger silent, always smirking at her phone. I wasn't interested in her any more

When the car stopped, I wasted no time in throwing myself out of the door and running towards the mansion we had parked outside. I took the steps two at a time, and was greeted by Mycroft before I could even reach for the doorbell. 

  
"John, it's been a long time." He smiles.

  
I cut in, not caring for his shallow pleasantries and wanting to get to the heart of the matter, whatever it was. "Where's Sherlock? Is he ok?"

He laughed "He's fine" his smile twisted slightly, the look on his face was bitter now. "He's Sherlock, as usual."

At this point, I realised that there was a problem, but not one that I should be particularly worried about, nor a problem that I hadn't encountered.

"Please, come in." He stepped aside to let me into the vast entrance hall. I heard the clicking of Anthea's shoes as she walked in behind me.

  
I was led through the house to a fire lit room in the middle of a corridor of closed doors. I looked around at the deep red wallpaper, and glossed wood paneling that lined the walls, the chandelier that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. Then I saw Sherlock sat in an arm chair, scowling

I shot him a questioning look, and I knew he was about to make some scathing, sarcastic remark, but Mycroft spoke before he could. 

"We have come to the unanimous decision that it would be better if Sherlock were to return home to Baker Street." when he met Sherlock's eyes, his expression grew irritated. "I see no further threat, and there is no sense in keeping him here any longer." 

"There would have been no problem with me returning earlier, if you weren't so overbearing." Sherlock spat from his seat. 

Mycroft's face contorted further "Mummy was upset enough as it is, you should be thankful that she didn't move in too." 

"Mummy didn't ask you to keep me prisoner here because you had no idea how to handle Jim Moriarty." he stood up, raising his voice, and at this point, I decided to intervene.

"You two... have been living here, in the same house, together, for three years?" I asked. It seemed impossible that neither had died at the hands of the other. 

  
"I can assure you the time did not pass quickly." Mycroft replied in a stern voice, still glaring at his brother.

  
"So you called me here, no... You broke into my laptop, to get me to take him home because you've had another argument?" I clarified, my patience with the bickering men wearing thin "You sell out your own brother, to the point where he has to fake his own death, and hide for years... and now you suddenly change your mind, and decide you've had enough?" I throw my hands up in defeat. It's like there was never a gap where none of this was part of my life.

Once again, I bear witness to the two children inside them squabbling. I turn to Sherlock "Are you ready to go?" 

  
He nodded, picking up the cabin bag left by the chair. For a bag that was supposed to contain three years of his life, it seemed very small. I started to wonder how he'd been, if he'd been lonely, or had managed to find something to take up his time while keeping a low profile. I wondered if he'd missed me, but I shook the thoughts from my mind, because it wouldn't be Sherlock to let things like loneliness or companionship bother him the way it had bothered me

 

  
Leaving the mansion with no goodbyes except for a mutinous glare between the two Holmes, we were sent back to Baker Street in the car. It was another silent drive, and the quiet was only broken when it came to our footsteps up the stairs to our flat.

  
My laptop sat on the table, the screen still blank, but the power lights flickering. I pressed a random key, but instead of it waking, the white letters appeared across the screen again.

_D.I Lestrade should be calling with a case for him tomorrow_

_He's been unhappy; it’s about time he was sent home._

  
I tried to type back; although nothing appeared on the screen when I did

_Wouldn't it be easier to text?_   


  
I'm not surprised that he ignored that and returned my laptop to normal.

I turned to Sherlock, who sat on the sofa, fingertips pressed together, a steeple under his chin. He watched me for a second, before I asked him what had happened.

  
"I got sick of him and asked you to take me home." he stated plainly.

  
"You were the one that sent the message to my laptop?"

"I did just say that, yes."

"Right. And what about the rest of the three years?"

"Boring."

I stared at him for a few seconds, at a loss for what to say to him

"What happened on the roof?"

"The key, hidden in our flat, it was a trick, there wasn't one at all. There were three snipers, one for you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, you'd all be killed unless I jumped."

I felt almost guilty, for being angry. I wasn't entirely angry at him, just at the whole situation in general. But he wouldn't be here now if there was still a threat.

  
"What about Moriarty?"

"He shot himself, so I had no way of calling the gunmen off. Put a bullet through his head the moment I suggested there was a way out."

"And he's definitely gone? Because people seem to have a tendency to die and then it turns out they're not dead." I reminded him

"Mycroft looked, searched for any trace of him for years, but it was like he never existed. We went back to the roof top; someone had already taken him away."

I frowned at this "He could have just got up and left."

"No, no, no, the traces of blood, it was obvious he'd been carried away."

"Obvious, of course... so... Things can go back to how they were?"

He didn't answer, only giving me a strangely derisive look.

"Does anyone else know you're still alive?"

"I assume so, Mycroft would have alerted people to make sure he could keep tabs on me. Molly knew long ago, insisted on visiting to keep me company. That was tedious, but still better than Mycroft."

I felt betrayed then, that I'd been kept in the dark so long, while she was allowed to see him when she wanted

With a sigh, I shook my head. It seemed this was a normal day again, only one where Sherlock would remain silent. I settled into my chair, and turned on the telly, another crap reality program

  
Later in the day, Mrs. Hudson came up to check on me. This was entertaining, for me at least. She looked like she'd seen a ghost, which was understandable.

"Mycroft got sick of babysitting him, so he sent him home."

Tears welled in her eyes as she hugged him tightly "What have you done, Sherlock? Leaving us like that and all this time- Oh, I probably don't want to know all the trouble that evil man caused."

  
I laughed silently at his face as she fussed over him, which caused his expression to become even sulkier.

 

We were called into Scotland Yard, as Mycroft had said, the next day, an overcast Wednesday. Lestrade met us outside, and warned us to just ignore everyone else, should they react. We made our way down the halls to his office to collect the case file. There were a lot of looks, shock and fear mostly. I assumed they had no warning before Sherlock's arrival, they wouldn't believe it if they had

The case wasn't one Sherlock was particularly interested in, but I tried talked him into it. Then Donovan walked in, two coffees in her hands, dropping one when she saw him. Lestrade took the other, taking a gulp from it "Oh, well done." he grumbled, looking at the wet patch on the carpet

She didn't answer, staring wide eyed at Sherlock still, who looked away with a sneer on his face

"Fine, I'll take the case."

"What's going on?! He's supposed to be dead. He was a fake; he made all those crimes and killed himself when he got caught!"

"Sergeant Donovan!" Greg shouted over her.

She looked to him, not answering.

"Shut up."

She eyed Sherlock one last time, before turning and scurrying down the corridor.

Now disinterested in Donovan, Sherlock sat in Lestrade's chair, flipping through the file. When he finished, he gave Greg a disdainful look "Boring."

"Sherlock." I warned him. He was lucky to be let back in at all. Whatever had happened, Lestrade was clearly more in the know that me, and any suspicion had been thoroughly cleared

 

 

We spent most of that day, taking taxi from place to place, taking a quick look around before moving on to the next destination. The case of multiple burglaries of shop storerooms was straightforward enough to pull the evidence together, and by the end of the day, Sherlock had determined the general whereabouts of our final destination in the way of solving it.

  
I wasn't paying much attention to the details, and I was probably being more useless than usual to him, but I was more interested in everything I'd missed

  
That was one of his complaints about my blog, that I missed out everything he thought was important. It was because I only really cared about the feeling

I walked briskly behind Sherlock, torch in hand to light the way we were headed, down by an abandoned industrial estate. I'd missed what clue lead us here, but Sherlock seemed to know where he was going

Down the black, damp side alleyway, turning corners suddenly, until the path seemed to open out slightly. We stood at the back of a warehouse, and it seemed this was where we needed to get into.

"Maybe through one of the windows?"

He shook his head, walking further along, and into another side alley. He disappeared down a few steps which went below ground level, and after the wet splintering of rotten wood, I followed inside. He took the torch from my hand, and warily shone it around. What we could be looking for in here, I had no idea, because aside from bare, warped metal frames, the place was empty.

"Are you sure this is the right one?" I asked.

I saw him do a double take, and point the beam of light up and down one of the walls. He wasn't hesitant now, as he took long strides towards whatever he'd seen

"John... we have to get out. Now."

His voice shook, and instead, I rushed to his side. The torch revealed, sprayed in yellow on the wall, three letters: _IOU_  


  
"Why? What's that? It just looks like some graffiti."

"It's new, no more than an hour." He shook his head, backing away, taking my hand to pull me with him. "It was left for me."

"What does it mean? Why do we have to leave?" I pulled him to stop, and from the weakest light of a dusty window above us, I saw a tear slip down his face

He pointed the flash light down to the floor in front of the letters. All I could see was an apple core.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" My voice rose from the whisper it had been, as he dragged me to follow him.

We got close to the door, but were stopped in our tracks when we heard something far behind at the other end of the warehouse. An unhealthy whirr and buzzing, as slowly, the lights flickered on, row by row.

 

 

It was a soft voice that spoke, a smile audible in his voice. He had such a gentle voice. To someone who'd never known it, it was a friendly tone, but to me, it was nothing but evil and hatred. It was Jim Moriarty, the threat that had never died, calling out to us from the dark.

"You didn't stick to the plan, Sherlock... You didn't keep your side of the deal."

Another row of lights came to life, but I closed my eyes, because I didn't want to see him stood there. Instead, I looked to Sherlock, who tore his eyes from him, and looked down at me.

"Your choices were clear, you die, or your friends die." he paused, and when I turned to him, he smiled "Since you can't decide, I'll let you have both!" his smile grew into a giddy laugh. "I'm feeling generous!"

He walked towards us, and my stomach turned, but he stopped a few meters away. "Welcome back to the outside world!" he opened his arms, and spun in a small circle "It must be nice, being let off your brother's leash after all this time." he shook his head, sadly, or with what could be mistaken for sadness. "I'll bet you were looking forward to the rest of your life, solving cases with your pet Ordinary."

He started walking backwards, further from us again. "It's all such a shame, such a shame, just when things started looking up for you both." he stopped and spun to look at Sherlock "Oh, my apologies, I'm so rude. I haven't introduced you to my own live-in one. I told you I'd get one, didn't I? Good old Seb. Slightly more entertaining than your doctor, not that it was a competition, but he's even better with a gun than yours is!"

A red speck of light appeared on the floor in front of us. I didn't care to look for where it came from, I knew what followed.

"Now for the fun part!"

  
His voice softened again, almost a sigh.  "I told you what would happen, I warned you. Over and over, I was too lenient!"

His smile disappeared, as he began to shout, getting louder with each word.

  
"Time and time again, I told you. And I'm glad, I'm glad you never left it alone, it's been a pleasure

You knew that this was coming, and you thought you could cheat it. Do you see now? I told you Sherlock, and you didn't listen!" he screamed the last words, face blank, but his eyes furious

 

Sherlock looked back to me, but closed his eyes to try and keep the tears from spilling out "I'm sorry John."

He never liked to apologise, and was rarely wrong, except for when it came to understanding someone's feelings. When he did apologise, it was bitter and reluctant.

But now, I knew without any doubt, that this was the most sincere, regretful and heartbroken apology he would ever make.

He opened his eyes, and looked in mine.

I watched it all flash before both our eyes: Every case, every conclusion, and every step on London's battlefield. We felt each moment of frustration and admiration, each moment of fear and excitement. The first time I met him at the hospital. We relived that crazy run after a taxi. And that text

**_Could be dangerous._ **


	4. Chapter 4

_One day, and one night. A total of 36 missed calls, and 10 unanswered texts. Many muttered speculations and an abundance of morbid curiousity._

_Mrs Hudson sat before Greg Lestrade in his office. She explained everything, right back to the beginning. One morning, she came to check on John. He seemed happy, but she became even more worried when she saw he was under the impression that Sherlock had returned._

_He was inconsolable for a long time after that morning, until about a year later. Then he seemed better. Not completely. But inexplicably better._

_Another year passed, and she found the flat empty when she went to check up on him. She didn’t worry. He soon returned, only now everything made more sense, yet at the same time, no sense whatsoever. Sherlock sat on the sofa, John with his laptop, as if all was normal._

_The next day, when they were called out to a case, they called out to her as they left, that they would be back late. But they didn’t come back at all. She called John, repeatedly, after they’d been gone over night. Now, in the late morning of the second day they’d been away, she was worried._

_The last update Greg had received from John was that they were going to the old industrial estate, miles north from the station._

_They checked each warehouse and empty factory. One remained until last, with the side door broken in. It didn’t take a lot to find a definitive piece of evidence._

_John Watson lay with a bullet wound through his temple. Beside him lay Sherlock Holmes, holding his hand, with a blood soaked shirt from where he was shot through the heart. There was nothing else._


End file.
